


Ashes on the tray long overdue

by CrystallizedInsomniac



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Armitage Hux Has Issues, Blood and Gore, Coming Untouched, DFAB reader, Face-Fucking, Friends With Benefits, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Knifeplay, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylux is a Thing, Masturbation, More like Neighbours With Benefits, Multi, Overstimulation, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Smoking, Threesome - F/M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-18 16:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallizedInsomniac/pseuds/CrystallizedInsomniac
Summary: Because it's four in the morning and your neighbor — the tall, dark, scary one — is standing outside his apartment door. That's it. He's just...standingthere.He's also covered in blood, but that isn't new.





	Ashes on the tray long overdue

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the song **Salt** by **B. Miles**.

You have a feeling that they show the pool as their last card. A sort of "the apartments are shitty but we have a nice, indoor swimming pool" deal that's supposed to convince people to buy or rent the shit hole. Which, truthfully is something that any one living in this forsaken city would kill for — it's so unbelievable hot, sweltering all day and night, it's not even funny. 

 

It's probably the only clean looking thing about the whole building. The pool, that is.

 

You've been here for about half an hour looking at the apartment buildings. The place has a lingering smell like smoke and something putrid that was tried to be covered up by something far sweeter but not quite getting it right. It's a... powerful smell, to say the least. When you walked in the man who was moving out — Dopheld — tried to keep a cheerful voice while describing the other neighbors in the building. 

 

He didn't seem to want to linger too much in the lobby, even going as far as trying to get you into small talk about your personal life with him. You know he notices you inspecting the surrounding area, the way your mouth quirks downward in obvious disgust at the state of things.

 

The way your eyes linger on the peeling paint on what you assume were once beige-colored walls. Your obvious ignorance of the stains covering the carpet on the hallways, the way the lights flicker and some have simply gone out when you reach the third floor of the building. The loud whirring noises of the elevator — when it got stuck, Dopheld had laughed weakly, saying something about this happening only when it rained — when it goes up and down. Some of the doors don't even have a lock. 

 

Thankfully, Dopheld's apartment — the one you're interested in renting — seems at least somewhat decent. It's a small apartment, meant only for a single person to live in and from what you've glimpsed Dopheld has taken really good care of it. The wallpaper is clean and a pleasant cream color and the floor, while not carpeted, is in pretty good shape. The apartment has a single bedroom, a small living room with a sliding door that leads to an even smaller balcony with a crystal railing. The kitchen is smaller than any of the other apartments you've checked the last few weeks. But it seems cozy, _homey_ even. 

 

It also, has a fantastic view of the next neighborhood, the one that actually shines compared to the part where you're currently at. You feel like asking Dopheld if this view was the final straw or at least the motive to his sudden wish to leave the building. 

 

"The sunrises are very pretty," he comments, coming to stand next to you outside the small balcony. Because there's barely any space, it's unavoidable that his body ends up touching yours. It's fine, really. 

 

You don't reply to that comment, instead letting your eyes travel towards the ground. Off to the side, almost to the back of the building, you see a gated section with another building, this one longer but not taller than the rest. The walls are all tinted windows. You point there, "Is that part of the building?"

 

Dopheld turns to look that way and you feel his body do this thing, where it's not jumping or anything, but it's close to it. "Oh right. I almost forgot, the building has a swimming pool."

 

"Can we check it out?" You ask, even though you're already out of the balcony and inside the apartment, heading towards the door. Once outside into the hall, your eyes end up catching something that glinted when the sun hit it's surface. When you walk towards it you see that it's an used needle. Lovely.

 

Behind you, Dopheld is closing the door to his apartment. "Yeah! sure. Sure— let me just, close the door." 

 

"I'm not going to lie," Dopheld starts once the two of you are downstairs and outside, walking calmly side by side to the back of the building. You eye him out of the corner of your eyes, humming softly to indicate that you're listening, "this is probably the only place on this whole building that's actually worth it. You know, for living?"

 

You let a small smile grace your features, maybe a bit forced. If he notices he doesn't say anything, "Oh no. So far it seems... fine. I'm not much of a swimmer myself, so I doubt I'd be using the pool that much."

 

Something about your words has Dopheld smiling easily now, the air around him more confident. You're making it very obvious that you're actually _considering_ living here.

 

"For as long as I've been living here the pool has never been crowded, it's actually empty, for some reason and—" You tune him out, or rather, his voice becomes background noise once he opens the door.

 

The first thing that you notice is the fact that inside the building seems to be a completely different world. The tinted windows do an extremely well job of not letting any sort of light inside the place, as there are a bunch of light fixtures that give the place a soft glow. The swimming pool itself is big and large, obviously deep enough that it's not meant for children. The floor is made up of light blue tiles that glisten with the water that sits on top of them. Surrounding the pool are a bunch of chairs, tables. 

 

It's actually jarring, how different this place looks from the actual building. Whoever is taking care of it — because there's _no way_ the management from the building is keeping this place looking spectacular and the actual building like shit — has their priorities straight. 

 

"—not really the best of places, you know?" Dopheld's voice comes to a halt and it takes you a second to realize that he's waiting on your part.

 

"Uh, yeah." Great. You should be given an award for eloquence. Dopheld doesn't notice your lack of attention towards him though. After taking a last, lingering look at the pool, the two of you make your way outside.

 

It's hot as hell, and the instant you step outside the building it's easily noticeable just how cool it had been _inside_ , just because of the water. You place your hand at the back of your neck, already feeling the sweat starting to run there, and then you look at Dopheld. He seems to be looking for more conversation, or rather, your assessment of the place.  

 

All in all, the building is a horrible place for you to live in. It's most likely the meeting point for gang members, drug dealing and who knows what else. The neighborhood it's located at isn't the most safe one, and you could honestly do so much _better_. It's unhygienic and you're more than likely to be robbed or worse, _killed_ , the first week. Who the fuck would want to live in this place?

 

Someone desperate. That's _who_. 

 

Dopheld, too apparently thinks the same, if his eagerness to get rid of the place is anything to go by. He almost seems anxious of your answer, brown eyes watching intensely with barely concealed fear of being rejected the offer. You're pretty sure that this is his last time trying to get rid of the place, in an attempt to at least get some money out of it. If you'd say no, he'd probably just abandon the place, forget about the money.

 

You aren't going to say no though, you can't be picky. You _know_ this.

 

"So, when exactly can I move in?"

 

He beams.

 

——

 

"You aren't much of a talker, are ya?" 

 

You really, _really_ do not understand why some people feel the need to talk so much while fucking. The guy behind you has been a constant, non-stop talkative machine with a fat dick and nice hands, which is truthfully the only reason as to why you're letting him bend you over the kitchen counter. Good thing, too, he doesn't stop the slow drag of his cock backwards and doesn't stop squeezing your waist. 

 

You're going to bruise later, and you can't help but moan at the image of looking at yourself in the mirror an hour or two later. Ten finger imprints on your skin.

 

"It'd help, you know?" He grunts and thrusts forward, balls slapping against your skin with how deep he's in. You think he's going to drop the subject there, when he grips on tightly to your waist and pulls you back on his dick, but apparently you're wrong. "I don't even know if— _fuck,_ if you even like this."

 

You roll your eyes, thankful that he can't see your face, what's with it being partially covered by your arms, cheek resting on the cool marble counter. When he pulls back, you chase after his cock, rolling your hips. You let out something between a soft moan and a sigh. "If I didn't like it we wouldn't be doing this."

 

Which, first of all, a lie. He doesn't need to know that though. Not now that he seems content with your answer and is currently trying to fuck you _into_ the counter. This guy — _Mike_ , your brain supplies when he plasters himself on your back, grunting softly into the back of your neck — _Mike's_ nice, a classmate of yours that apparently took a liking to yourself the minute you had stepped inside the classroom. For whatever reason that he's yet to divulge to you, he seems set on on befriending you. So far, he's just a quick fuck that you can call on when your fingers aren't enough or you're feeling like sucking on some dick.

 

But it's not like you like him. It's just, he's good at _fucking_ and that's the end of it. It's not him, it's more of his cock actually. Because you're not an ass, you talked to him about it before, he just likes to pretend to ignore that conversation. Which, fine by you. You have enough shit on yourself as it is to worry about another person.

 

" _[Name]_ ," Mike grunts out, one hand sliding underneath your body and finding your clit, he wastes no time in rubbing it. Spurred on even more when he hears you gasp, enthusiastically moving your body back and meeting his thrusts. He's getting faster, more uncoordinated. A part of you feels _something —_  not necessarily pleasant — at the realization that you can already tell when he's close just by body language. "Fucking hell, you're so good. So fucking good, so _tight._ "

 

You're not even close to coming when Mike pulls out and begins to fuck himself on his fist, grunting when he presses the slick head of his cock against your entrance and shooting thick ropes of come there. You feel it dripping down the back of your legs. " _C'mon._ " It's definitely not a whine, _definitely_ not.

 

Mike, god bless him, is not only blessed with a thick cock but also with a great mouth, so when he drops down to his knees and kneads your ass before licking straight into your cunt, you let out a loud, satisfied moan. It's worth it so much that the part of you that would've been livid by the fact that he came on you and not _in_ you, is oddly quiet right now when he begins to eat you out.

 

It doesn't take you long to come after that. Mike relents after a minute or so. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he stands up, wipes his face with his arm and moves towards the couch, soft cock still out. The image is almost obscene, what's with the fact that he hadn't even bothered with taking off his pants completely, all he removed was his shirt. You lick your lips, Mike smiles at you.

 

"So," Mike starts as you get yourself comfortable on the kitchen counter, two fingers tracing the outer lips of your slick cunt. "what are you planning on doing tomorrow?"

 

You close your eyes, panting softly when you realize just how wet you are. You consider bringing yourself off once more, teasing yourself unhurriedly. "I um, grocery shopping, probably going to pay some bills and um..." You bite your lip once you realize what you're talking about while trying to get off. "Dude. Not sexy."

 

Mike laughs, "Yeah, sorry." And then, after a minute of silence: "Do you, want any help with that or—'

 

"No!" You gasp, pumping your fingers in and out, the sound of slick loud in the room. "No, that's um... it's okay." You open your eyes, giving him a smile. For some reason, you'd have expected him to feel rejected or to show some vague emotion of annoyance or disappointment in his face. Instead, you're rewarded with the fact that he's slowly stroking off, his soft cock coming back to life once more.

 

You huff out a laugh. "Aren't you sore?"

 

Mike shrugs, a handsome smile painting itself on his face. "Yeah, but it's not every day I get to see you fucking yourself on your fingers."

 

"Ah," it's the only thing that comes out of your mouth at the comment, for a lack of a better reaction. You give Mike a tight-lipped smile before closing your eyes once more, trying to push away the feelings of discomfort that his tone of voice brought — sweet, dreamily, almost fond if not yearning — and focusing on the feel of your fingers going in and out of your cunt.

 

It takes you a minute of awkward silence, save for the sound of Mike's soft grunts and the squishy sound of your fluids and his spunk being moved around by your fingers, before you realize that this is not doing it for you anymore. You let out a sigh through your nose, open your eyes to look at Matt, three fingers curling inside of you.  Mike's eyes are concentrated on your body, obviously trying to get off at the picture, and apparently it's working. Mike's dick shoots out his spend, which he captures by cupping his hand around the head.

 

His eyes meet yours and you feel an oddly sensation like you should be giving him _something._  Then, another though, intrusive: He's expecting you to come to the visual of him jacking off. Maybe. Plausible. It is Mike, after all.

 

Then, exasperated, annoyed: _For fucks sake_. 

 

You arch your body the way you know it does when a particular good orgasm hits you, letting out a loud moan muffled by the fact that you're biting your lips. You pretend to ride it out for about twenty seconds before finally slumping down on the counter, letting it hold your body weight. Off to the side, Mike lets out a curse.

 

" _Fuck_ , that— you, that was, I—" He stumbles over his words, sounding like a kid amazed at something magical, impossible. "—that was so _fucking hot_. I can't believe you just came from watching _me_ come."

 

"Hmm," is your reply because that's _nicer_ than trying to find a way to tell Mike that he needs to leave now. The problem is that he's far past the point where you can kick him out. Mike doesn't consider himself a booty-call, and what's with the amount of times he's already been over the last two months whatever boundaries that come with a booty-call are blurring themselves. If not for you, then for himself. Also, Mike tends to do a lot of guilt-tripping.

 

Maybe not intentionally or unintentionally, but he _always_ , _somehow_ manages to do it. It's always when he starts doing or saying some shit like—

 

"Hey, so. I was thinking." Mike begins, one hand scratching the back of his head — not the semen covered one — as he avoids your eyes, completely shy, as if he wasn't fucking your brains out moments prior. "Maybe I could make us dinner?"

 

— _this._

 

 

——

 

 

Mike leaves a whole two hours later.

 

He ends up calling that Chinese place down the street when he opens the fridge and finds nothing that he can use to make dinner. He tries to play it off cool at first, making a joke about how he's _"been there before, ya know._ " and _"such is the life of an art student."_ which then leads to an incredibly awkward silence which you did not try to alleviate. 

 

When he realized that he wasn't going to get more conversation from you, he hadn't left, mostly because of his promise to treat you to dinner. So he called the Chinese place, ordered way too much food for the both of you and ate dinner with you. He overstayed his welcome for an hour after. 

 

Now here you are, staring at the trashcan in the kitchen and deciding what the fuck to do with your life right now. The option that normal, well-adjusted, functioning members of society would take it's to go to bed in order to rise early and all that shit. Since it is, 1:23 AM. _However_ , your fridge is empty.

 

One in the morning seems like an optimal time to go grocery shopping at your nearest grocery shop. Never-mind the fact that you're living in one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the city. Honestly, at this point, getting robbed or kidnapped — or whatever the fuck it is people do these days — isn't much of a big deal when compared to other situations going on right now in your life.

 

You leave the kitchen and head towards your room, finding an old, big hoodie — possibly an ex's, you're not sure at this point — and putting it on over your body, doing the same thing with a pair of sweatpants that you find lying around. A part of you thinks about taking a shower before going out, and maybe putting on some underclothes as well, but then you think better of it.

 

It's too much of a hassle for a twenty minute errand, and anyways, it's not like whoever poor-unlucky soul is stuck working the midnight shifts will bat an eyelash at someone reeking of sex trying to get some food in the morning. Again, not the most pure-hearted neighborhood, poor idiot might have seen worse. With those thoughts in mind, you put on some sneakers, grab your phone and pocket your credit card in one of the hoodie's pockets.

 

When you walk out of your room and out into the apartment's hallway, you grab your keys from the kitchen counter, open the door and the lock it.

 

For some reason when you moved in into the apartment, you'd have expected it to be lively during the early-morning hours and around midnight. However, walking through the hall and moving towards the elevator, you can't help but feel strange walking among the silence. There aren't a lot of people inhabiting the building, although all of them do have shady jobs that they try to keep away from the complex.

 

It's nice, actually. Having someone call out to you good morning, or ignore you. Which is fine, really. You're not really sure why Dopheld wanted to move out of the complex, unless he was being bullied. Even that thought seems outrageous, you're no longer in high school. It's not that "adults" just stop being petty and childish, it's just that they learnt to either ignore it or simply control it until a more adequate situation.

 

Anyways, Dopheld was quite a small man and gave push-over vibes. You, on the other hand, exerted the right aura that meant others knew you wouldn't deal with shit. Maybe that's why you're confident in the thought that you wouldn't be mugged while walking towards the grocery store, at least the only one who was open 24/7. That was like, four blocks away but it's fine. Really.

 

The lobby is empty when you step out of the elevator, although it is not dark. You push open the front door and make your way outside.

 

It's chilly, the wind bites your skin and makes goosebumps rise where your body is not covered by the hoodie. Otherwise, it's perfectly still and quiet save for the rustling of the trees leaves and the nocturnal animals.

 

"Can't sleep?" The voice startles you and you swallow down a yelp. Instantly, [eye color] eyes snap towards the direction of the voice and you find yourself staring at a man that was certainly _not_ there before. 

 

You eye the figure instead of answering his question. The man for his part, seems to not be bothered, simply taking another drag from the cigarette hanging between his lips. The poor amount of light outside the building isn't doing any favors in helping you recognize the man, but he seems comfortable leaning on one of the building walls. Maybe another tenant. Or someone with a knife that's going to gut you.

 

_Not now_. You think to yourself, all while trying to calm down your racing heart. The stranger keeps on looking at you, and even if you can't see his eye color, you're pretty adept at figuring out if it's a light or dark color by simply _looking_ at someone, it doesn't even have to be face-to-face. But that. _That_ , isn't the point. The point is, that he's staring at you with such an intensity that you're _absolutely_ certain that he can see the way your heart is racing, almost jumping out of your rib-cage. 

 

His face is half-hidden by the shadows of the night and whatever is visible is poorly done by the moon's natural light, however, the man has pale skin and is a redhead. He's wearing a button-up shirt with it's sleeves rolled up, white. Dark slacks, fancy shoes. He looks out of place, what's with his slicked back hair and the way he's casually having a smoke at this hour while dressed like _that_.

 

"Mute?" He asks, this time he's not looking at you anymore, so you're presented with his profile. He's got one hand inside a pocket of his pants, the other holding the cigarette. Smoke billows atop his head like a crown, a halo. "I doubt it though." He's also got an accent, British? Maybe Irish?

 

"I—" you cut yourself off, dread creeps up your spine for no discernible reason. You ignore it, clear your throat. "—No. You just... startled me."

 

"Ah," he says. Inhale, exhale. Smoke. "I apologize then."

 

You nod. After a second though, you feel kinda stupid for doing so. He probably didn't see you. He probably doesn't even care anyways, what's with the fact that he's no longer even looking at you. You can just walk away now, but you don't.

 

"I don't believe you walked out for a smoke, did you?" The stranger asks then, a lazy inclination of his head towards you and you see that his eyes are a mix of blue and green. "You don't seem like the smoking type."

 

"Excuse me?"

 

He shrugs. "Never seen you smoke." 

 

"Uh..." Okay. What? What does he mean that _he's never seen you smoke?_ "And you know this how?"

 

"Apartment 4B," He says, and you try to wreck your brain for an image of a redhead living in the apartment next to you. None come to mind. He seems to sense your trying to figure things out process, because he lets out a sound that is awfully close to a chuckle. "We've been living there for a year now."

 

The 'we' doesn't process itself correctly, not if your execution of your next sentence is anything to go by. Because apparently you feel the need to mention the other guy, who is the second component to the 'we'.  "Oh! um, I didn't know you lived there, since um. There's this other guy—"

 

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand, a scoff. "—Ren. He's my.... _roommate_. I was away on a  _business_ trip, just came back a couple of minutes ago."

 

Your eyes scan the area surrounding him, looking for luggage. When your eyes meet his again, they seem to be dancing with amusement. A mockingness to them, as if they're daring you to call out his bullshit. Business trip, no suit and tie, no luggage or a briefcase. At least he's not drunk and carrying a knife. You can deal with a shady liar. 

 

"Okay." You say. Because what else are you supposed to say in this situation? "I better get going then, you're obviously tired. I need to go."

 

The man raises an eyebrow at your pathetic efforts at getting away. Mentally, you are withering. You are the pinnacle of human social interaction. 

 

"So. See ya." You wave, turn around, and begin walking away. The stranger does not say anything, simply lets you go without another word. 

 

You try to shake off the feelings of eyes on you.

**Author's Note:**

> I thrive on comments, so leave one even if it's to tell me that I should get a life lmao. Or you can ask me why I haven't updated my other Kylo/Reader series [my hands, your bones](http://archiveofourown.org/series/499672) when I clearly have material to upload for it.
> 
> or you can talk to me over on my [tumblr](http://crystallizedinsomniac.tumblr.com/). also please support me maybe and consider buying me a [ko-fi](ko-fi.com/crystallizedinsomniac)


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